


In Safe Hands

by vivi1138



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Don't add to Goodreads, Don't copy to another site, Drarry Strugglefest 2020, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Spell Failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138
Summary: Harry mispronounces a spell and Draco has to deal with the consequences. He thinks he'll hate every second of it, but who knows, domesticity might be just what he needs in life.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 325
Collections: Drarry Strugglefest 2020





	In Safe Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/gifts).



> This was written for this fun prompt by [GallifreyisBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallifreyisBurning/pseuds/GallifreyisBurning) : _Harry accidentally spells his hands together_  
>  *  
> Beta'd by [alwaysparis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysparis). Thank you!

Standing at the window with a glass of wine in his hand, Draco watched the fog gather on the surface of the Black Lake. Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major echoed in his quarters, bringing him some much-needed peace after a long day. He despised Tuesdays. His third-year Hufflepuffs had been in an experimental mood. Melted cauldrons, ruined desks and unusable ingredients had been the least of Draco’s worries because three students had ended up in the infirmary after breathing in the toxic fumes they’d accidentally unleashed.

As the slow melody filled his ears, he mentally composed a resignation letter.

_Headmistress,_

_It has become apparent that my teachings have only exacerbated our students’ propensity for insanity and mayhem. As such, I regret to inform you that I shall leave this infernal castle at dawn, and never look back. You are, of course, invited to the grand opening of my Niffler sanctuary._

_Bitterly yours,_

_Draco L. Malfoy, Head of Slytherin_

_P.S.: Please find a replacement for the Defence position as well, as I intend to take your favourite Golden Boy with me._

Mother would hate such a career change; Draco thought it’d be rather smart. Nifflers were cute and useful. Certainly worth throwing away the position he’d held for the past fifteen years, as long as his insufferable partner followed him. He took a sip of wine—Superior Red, nothing but the best from his ancestral winery—and closed the window before the evening chill seeped into his bones. His plans for tonight included Padma Patil’s newest romance novel, its cover carefully Transfigured into the Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe to save Draco from his occasional visitors’ prying eyes. Perfection didn’t exist, after all, and Draco had a few guilty pleasures he wished to keep quiet. Some of his colleagues had the unfortunate habit of snooping.

He unclasped his pinched-waist robes so he’d be more comfortable, sunk into the armchair with a sigh of relief, and summoned the book, eager to start.

The arrival of a deer Patronus interrupted his foray into the first paragraph. “Malfoy, come to my quarters, it’s urgent!”

Draco’s eye twitched. A second deer appeared before the first vanished. “Seriously, hurry!”

With a loud exhale, Draco stared at the ceiling and shouted, “Fuck this!”, as if it would somehow make him feel better. It didn’t. He tossed the book aside, stood up and turned off his MagiMusic player. The Floo trip to the former Dark Tower was a bumpy ride; Draco hated every second of it. He landed gracefully in his nemesis-slash-boyfriend’s quarters, a cosy space with too many pillows and hand-knitted throws lacking any colour coordination. Draco announced his presence by calling Potter’s name.

The man stumbled out of the bathroom, looking like he’d visited Longbottom’s greenhouses and survived an encounter with the Devil’s Snare. His hair escaped from a loose bun in odd spikes and curls, reminding Draco of the bird’s nest he used to carry around before he figured out that long hair would be easier to tame. His glasses were crooked, his trousers ripped at the thigh and his shirt partially tucked into the waistband, buttons askew. “Oh thank Merlin you’re here!” Potter shuffled closer, a sock still covering his toes but not the rest of his foot. “Help!”

Draco frowned, bewildered and almost annoyed that no one was dying. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t undress yourself like any civilised adult?”

“Well, since you asked, no.” And with a tilt of his head, he raised his hands. Draco blinked. Potter’s palms had fused together. “See?” Potter insisted. “Now tell me you have a solution. I tried everything!”

The fact that Potter had produced two Patroni in this state was nothing short of a miracle. The wand-movement alone—Draco shouldn’t be surprised: it was _Potter_ , after all. However, he’d still managed to get into this situation, because despite his magical prowesses, Potter was a clumsy oaf. Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What happened?” he asked. Potter’s reply was inaudible. “Repeat that?”

Green eyes flicked to the ceiling and back to Draco. Potter always did that when he was embarrassed. “It’s a spell. I mispronounced it.”

“Of course you did.” Draco narrowed his eyes and his lips curved into a smirk. “I must say it’s rather convenient.” Draco’s mind reviewed the numerous things he’d like to do to him, to see his eyes pleading for release.

Potter cleared his throat, a blush dusting his cheeks. “You can tie me up later. Just help me fix this first.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Draco purred, stepping closer and drawing random shapes on Harry’s shirt with the tip of his index finger. “You interrupted a nice, quiet evening, one I was in dire need of. I should punish you.”

At that, Potter threw his hands in his face so Draco couldn’t ignore the straining patch of skin between them. “If you help, I’ll let you do that—that _thing_ you wanted.”

It was unfair how adorable he could be when he spoke about sex. They weren’t particularly adventurous, because their sex life didn’t need spicing up—Potter didn’t mind sex with Draco (and _only_ Draco), but he didn’t initiate it. For him, it felt good, but he didn’t crave it. Draco didn’t care about any of that. As long as Harry was comfortable with him and didn’t force himself, all was well. A silk ribbon around his wrists and the occasional blindfold were some of Draco’s favourite accessories, and they didn’t push too many boundaries. Draco’s filthiest desire, however, was worth leaving a glass of Superior Red behind, but he’d ensure Potter was fully on-board with it beforehand.

“All right, I’m in. Do you remember the spell?”

“Yes, and I’ve asked Filius and Minerva, and they can’t help. I think I need a potion.”

“There’s no potion to separate fused limbs—” Draco’s eyes widened in realisation, remembering an incident in his first year of teaching. “Nevermind, there is! Kreacher!”

The elf, always ready to get away from the kitchens, popped in front of them and bowed. “Is Mistress Cissa’s graceful baby boy wanting something?”

Harry snorted, and Draco flushed. “Fuck you, Potter.” That psychotic elf would be the death of him. “Kreacher, get my lab ready.”

“Master Draco is being sure? Master Draco is wanting to be poisoned?”

“Why do you think I’m asking for your help?”

“Brats and cauldrons making life difficult for Kreacher, what would poor Master Regulus say,” Kreacher muttered.

“Regulus would be proud of you for ensuring the safety of his cousin,” Harry pointed out, earning a venomous glare before the elf popped away. Then he smiled at Draco, and Draco was forced to face the fact that he was in love with the bastard. It happened a few times a week—small details that’d make him squirm and act in ways unbefitting of a Malfoy. Thankfully, Draco was no longer climbing trees to get Potter’s attention. He’d grown to appreciate the benefits of discretion.

“What were you trying to do before I got there?” Draco wondered, eyeing the state of his clothes.

“Putting my clothes back on to Floo to your quarters if you didn’t show up. Help me? I couldn’t remove my shirt properly earlier anyway. You’ll have to cut it off.”

Draco nodded and unbuttoned the messy fabric, lingering a bit with a subtle touch because Potter looked good enough to eat, then sliced the sleeves in half with a flick of his wand. With a mischievous wink, he dropped to his knees and unfastened Harry’s trousers, placing a soft kiss on his lower abdomen.

“Not tonight, Malfoy,” Harry whispered. “My hands are too sore.”

Draco glanced up. “That’s okay. May I spend the night with you when I’m done brewing?”

“You know the answer to that. Stand up; I want a kiss.”

Grinning, Draco did just that, then told him to discard the idea of a pyjama, since he wouldn’t be able to put his top on. After that, he remembered Harry’s absence at dinner and asked Winky for a light meal while Harry was waiting on the sofa, wrapped in a garish blanket. When the food arrived, Draco sat with him and cut the fish into small pieces to feed it to him.

He didn’t expect to enjoy it, but taking care of him, ensuring he wasn’t putting any unnecessary strain on his wrists—it felt great. Domestic bliss was something he’d always fought against, but now he wondered why he’d never wanted any of it. Draco’s heart was turning _soft_ and _mushy!_ What a travesty. Harry kept grumbling and shifting, pretending he didn’t like the attention, but Draco knew better.

The Golden Boy’s frustration was growing, though. He tried to drink on his own but spilt his glass. His attempt at cleaning it up failed when he dropped his wand while a spell was already shining at the tip, and only Draco’s quick _Protego_ kept the opposite wall intact.

“Well, no more magic for you tonight, Potter.” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, then Kreacher came back and announced that none of the fumes remained, taking the empty plates before being asked.

Harry glared at his hands. “I hate this. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, shook his shoulders to dislodge the blanket, and stomped towards the bathroom, closing it with his foot. A muffled “Fuck!” could be heard through the wooden door.

“Do you need help with something?”

“ _No_. Brew that potion? Please?”

“Very well. Do try to survive for the next few hours.” Draco grabbed a handful of Floo powder and left.

His lab didn’t smell awful anymore. He peeked into his classroom and found it clean and safe. Good, he wouldn’t have to cancel his classes come morning. He turned on the MagiMusic player. (Yes, he had more than one, scattered where he usually dwelt. Yes, there was one in Potter’s quarters. No, Potter didn’t share his love for heart-wrenching, exquisite tunes—they made him _sad_. How ridiculous.)

It took him a few minutes to find the appropriate recipe, and he started preparing the ingredients with Barber’s Adagio for Strings filling his ears. He worked efficiently, cutting, splitting, crushing. He had to focus on his movements and timing because he kept thinking that Harry’s wrists must be hurting him, and what if the nincompoop decided to bathe, and _drowned_? Draco called for Kreacher again and interrupted him before he could refer to Draco as “Cissa’s graceful baby boy” or some other nonsense. “Keep an eye on Potter. He might hurt himself.”

“If Master Draco knows what’s good for him, he won’t ask more of Kreacher tonight, no, no he won’t.”

Draco sneered, wiping flobberworm remains from his hands. “And if Kreacher doesn’t do his job, I’ll make sure he gets a raise and more holidays. Why, I might even send him to a spa.”

“Master wouldn’t dare!”

“Watch me.”

Kreacher vanished. Draco shook his head and added the ingredients to the potion one by one. Then, he cleaned the cutting board, knife, mortar and pestle while the mixture changed from a dull grey to a bright pink colour, and he made sure to reread the recipe so he wouldn’t forget anything. It said to leave it on the flame for an hour, so Draco cast a monitoring spell and headed to his quarters to pick up his book, before coming back and sitting on a stool to read.

He’d gone through most of his playlist and three chapters when his timer indicated that he should add his sliced gurdyroot to the cauldron. As soon as he did that, the liquid seemed to freeze. The recipe called this step hibernation, an odd result when gurdyroot and moondew were combined in the correct order. The potion would mature over the next few hours without requiring supervision. Satisfied, Draco left to take a shower, keeping the monitoring spell in place just in case. He scrubbed his skin with his favourite soap, then applied lotion on his whole body and another in his hair—potion fumes had terrible consequences on hair follicles and could clog pores. Draco refused to turn into Snape. Not to mention how much Potter despised the smell that clung to Draco when he’d been brewing. It was a persistent scent, quite similar to cigarettes. Only a few products made it disappear completely.

Before getting dressed in his silk pyjamas, Draco cast a detection spell to ensure that no trace of the smell lingered. Satisfied, he grabbed a pain-reliever and Flooed back to Potter’s quarters, only to find him glowering in bed. He had a book in his lap but wasn’t reading it.

“I’m back. I’ll check on the potion in a few hours. What’s going on?”

“Oh, I just really enjoy staring into the void with a book close to me,” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. “I can’t read, obviously. Turning the pages hurts.”

“My, aren’t we snarky tonight.” Draco slid under the covers with a smirk and handed him the vial. “Drink this.”

Harry could barely hold onto it, and he was getting flustered. As much as Draco enjoyed teasing him, he knew it wouldn’t be fair right now. Instead, he took back the vial, uncorked it and brought it to Harry’s lips. He then helped him wash away the taste with a glass of water and waited until the set of his shoulders relaxed. “Feeling better?”

“I can’t feel my hands,” Harry groaned. “It’s like that spell from Lockhart.”

Draco shuddered, remembering the creepy sight of an arm emptied of its bones (he’d been lurking nearby and witnessed it all). “I can hold your book for you,” he offered, flushing and berating himself for being so sappy.

Potter had perfected the art of “eyebrow arching”, as he demonstrated in response. “Why, Professor Malfoy, how generous of you. Perhaps you’d be willing to read to me?”

If Potter had been raised in the Pureblood traditions his family had practised, he’d charm his way through the Wizengamot with ruthless efficiency. As it stood, he’d learned from the best, and there was no limit to Draco’s smugness. Potter had always been a sassy little shit; he’d only recently realised how easy it was to manipulate Draco into doing his bidding if he smirked a certain way. Again, Draco cursed the part of him that wanted nothing more than crawl at Harry’s feet and be happy about it.

He wondered what his ancestors would say as he settled in comfortably beside his partner and started to read.

###

It took two whole days before the fused skin returned to normal. Two days of correcting Defence copies, brewing pain-relievers, massaging sore wrists, and helping Harry shower. Forty-eight hours of feeding him, dressing and undressing him, spooning him in bed, and teaching him to appreciate classical music (a nearly fruitless endeavour). He’d fallen so deeply in love; there was no going back.

Draco had taught Harry’s classes, likely traumatising seven years worth of students by talking to them about what being raised worshipping the Dark Arts meant. Some of them might even sleep with the lights on for a while. At least, they’d be motivated to learn how to defend themselves. He’d taught his classes, adjusting the schedule of his NEWT students as much as possible and letting the best of them take over his first and second-year lessons. He’d dodged questions from his colleagues, obtained the soothing sap of Longbottom’s favourite plant to use as a massage oil, and had to swear to the Headmistress that he would not use Potter’s limbs as potion ingredients.

Draco didn’t want to admit it, but he was exhausted. He’d watched over Harry late into the night since Tuesday, then again after his hands were back to normal, just in case. Then he’d woken up to a series of light kisses on his shoulder, had seen the shine of Harry’s eyes, his crooked smile, the disaster on his head and the glow of his skin, and he’d buried his face in his pillow with a loud groan. For the first time, he didn’t see the point of living separately anymore.

 _Monday,_ he promised himself after his last class of the week, _I’m moving in with him._ Then he winced. There’d be no hiding his romance novels from Potter if they shared the same bookshelf. But since Harry’s antics helped Draco cope with difficult days, living together couldn’t possibly be a bad thing. He’d even forgotten to give detention to the students responsible for turning his classroom into a toxic wasteland.

Perhaps Draco wouldn’t write a resignation letter just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> If you liked this, you might enjoy [my other HP fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138)
> 
> I can be found on [Tumblr](https://penguinanimagus.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FuzzyJawa) , come say hi!  
> 


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